


Control-Alt-Break

by Xochiquetzl



Category: The Archangel Protocol Series - Lyda Morehouse
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hacking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xochiquetzl/pseuds/Xochiquetzl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The red chair is a little too comfortable for coding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control-Alt-Break

The red chair is probably a little too comfortable for coding. It smells like coffee, probably because he spilled a lot of it there this morning. There's a monitor on the table next to him, with white letters on a black background spelling out his latest code in progress.

He's bartering hardware maintenance for rent. Pretty sweet deal; the room is climate-controlled, if cold, and the equipment is set to alert him if he's out. Best of all, there's no actual work involved unless there's an emergency, which leaves him plenty of time for his own projects, and no one cares what he does as long as the servers stay up.

He's having trouble keeping his eyes open. The computer fans are practically a white noise generator.

He yawns and rereads the line of code he just wrote. It's a mass of typos and non sequiturs. He makes a face and puts the keyboard on top of the monitor. He pulls the blanket around himself, leans his head against the wing of the chair, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Dee's fingers bunch up his shirt. She grabs him, pulls him up out of the chair, shoves him into the wall. She kisses him, hot and wet.

"It's nice to see you, too," he says. Shit, she's acting like she's really going to go for it this time. He doesn't want to point that out in case saying something jinxes it. He probably should; a better man would probably say something like _Are you sure?_ or _What about Michael?_, but fuck it. She's a grown woman and can make her own decisions.

She kisses him again, hard. Her hands slide up, under his shirt. Her fingers are cold traveling up his ribs and chest, but he doesn't mind. He'd be happy to warm up any part of her body any time. He pulls her shirt loose, unbuttons it, slides his hands onto her ribs and up to her bra. He makes a small noise deep in his throat and pushes the shirt off her shoulders. He pulls back from the kiss; he wants to see her, see the soft, warm skin he's been touching.

Dee's blonde curls drop over her face, hiding it, as she looks down and kicks off her shoes. She reaches down and pulls off her socks, then unbuttons and unzips her jeans, pushing them down towards the floor. There they are, the notorious Hanes bikini cut size sixes.

He bites his lip, then reaches out and gently, with just his fingertips, brushes his way down across her collarbone, down her breasts. He reaches behind her with both hands and unhooks her bra, then pulls it away. The straps fall off her shoulders; the cups lower to reveal pale pink nipples. He tosses her bra onto the bed, then leans down to nuzzle and kiss her breasts. She runs her fingers through his hair and kisses him on the forehead.

He kneels, and reaches up to those bikini cut size sixes, and slowly pulls them down. She smells like salt and sex. He realizes he's salivating and tries to guide her towards the bed.

"Hey!" she says. "Pants!"

He makes an impatient noise. "I wasn't planning on wearing them all night, you know." He stands.

She grins, reaches down, and unfastens his pants. They fall down around his sneakers. He gives her a quick smile and squats down and unties his shoes, then pulls them off and steps out of them and his pants. He pulls off his socks.

Dee reaches over, and slowly pulls his boxers down, which makes him shiver from more than just the cold. "You could put an eye out with that thing," she says.

He laughs, and realizes he's blushing. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

She gives him a shove. He falls back onto the bed, and she climbs on top of him. She kisses him.

He guides her onto her back and lowers his face between her legs. She's so wet. The smell and taste of her is... fuck, so good. Her shaking legs wrap around his head.

Her legs relax. "Mouse?" Her voice is breathless.

He looks up.

She beckons to him. "I want you up here."

He wipes his mouth off on the sheet and moves up her body. She wraps her legs around him and pulls him closer, and he's inside her. Merciful Allah, it can't be real, it's even better than he imagined. He's a little afraid that he'll wake up and be back in prison, lying on a crappy institutional bed with wet sheets.

She wraps her legs around him, and he suddenly knows what he wants most right now. "I want you on top."

She pushes him over. It's not quite a perfect roll, he falls out of her, but she climbs on top and he's back inside almost immediately. She braces her hands on his chest, which is nice, and starts to move. He finds a counterpoint, and moves with her. She's so beautiful; he wonders if she has any idea.

She's moaning, rubbing up against him, her breasts moving invitingly over him, her head tossed back. He reaches up and touches, strokes. Fuck, yes, this is it, this is what he wanted, she's so... "Fuck!" And then he's coming, eyes rolled back to look at the headboard, which fuzzes out like a bad LINK connection.

When he recovers enough to look at her, she's rubbing against him, her head thrown back. And then she stills, stops.

She pulls away, then lays down with her leg and arm across him and her head on his shoulder.

* * *

His eyes open. He's sitting in the red chair, and he's managed to come all over himself, like a fucking teenager. He makes a disgusted noise, stands, and strips out of his clothes. He walks over to the drawer and pulls out a fresh pair of underwear and puts them on.

It's cold, so he stands behind the server rack where the heat exhaust vents are and wraps a blanket around himself. He leans his forehead up against a cable cage and sighs. The warm air on his cheeks is almost, but not quite, like a lover's breath.


End file.
